


when i’m not with you i lose my mind

by cybergore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drug Use, Friends With Benefits, Humanstuck, Implied Sexual Content, It’s Just Weed, M/M, Making Out, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Shotgunning, Smoking, Sort Of, fuckboy mituna, kind of, they’re high when stuff happens but it’s all consensual, under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29298591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybergore/pseuds/cybergore
Summary: no one else gets this sort of reaction out of you. no one else holds the power to make you come undone in more ways than one, and you don’t know if you can handle that.you don’t know if you can handle him having this effect on you, while you’re easily replaceable in comparison.
Relationships: Mituna Captor/Kankri Vantas
Kudos: 10





	when i’m not with you i lose my mind

**Author's Note:**

> baby one more time - the marias
> 
> fair warnin mituna’s speech impediment is written pretty badly

You don’t know why your heart rate picks up when your cell phone chimes with a new text. Frankly, it’s rather absurd, not to mention potentially unhealthy.

Still, you can’t help it. The word  _ Mituna _ flashes on your screen and your chest immediately tightens.

Pushing back immediately from the flimsy desk that’s propped against the wall of your apartment and in turn the slow laptop that sits atop the surface, you hold your cell phone in a vice grip.

You know that you shouldn’t seem too desperate—despite being knowledgeable and far more intelligent than those daft and useless social guidelines, you can’t seem to keep from taking some of them to heart, especially when it comes to Mituna Captor. But although you’re aware of how horribly  _ pathetic _ you’ll seem to Mituna by replying to his message right away, you don’t have it in yourself to be cautious right now.

Thereby, you unlock your phone swiftly and click onto your messaging app with nearly shaking fingers. You read the awaiting text with wide eyes:

**Mituna Captor:** _hey ksnkri wnna hanf out latrr_

Judging by the incoherency of his message, you can presume that Mituna is either having what he calls a  _ bad day, _ or he’s (excuse your bluntness, and be aware of upcoming mentions of drug use, which may trigger certain individuals) high out of his mind.

You bite back a groan. You don’t like when Mituna, to put it simply, gets stoned. You at least hope there’s someone there with him—someone  _ responsible, _ though now that you consider it, none of the rabble Mituna calls “friends” are very responsible. At least, none of them are individuals you would trust to watch over him.

Your eyes are drawn to the motion of the blinking line on your typing bar.

Logically, you know that you should tell Mituna you can’t make it. You’ve got work to do—two essays due by the end of next week. Plus, you’re supposed to be having dinner with Karkat and his boyfriend later. In addition, there’s another, possibly most maddening reason you shouldn’t endeavor to spend more time with Mituna: you can feel yourself, in the words of today’s casual-tongued youth, “catching feelings”.

The arrangement you have with Mituna is, aside from being barbaric and truthfully rather tasteless in your opinion, is also one that is prone to go awry, if all the times you’ve seen it depicted in fiction are any sort of proper indicator. And, as you constantly preach, fiction  _ does, _ in many cases, affect and depict reality.

Because however much you’d like to deny it, being “friends with benefits” (benefits being the occasional, pardon your crudeness, sexual activity slightly beyond kissing) with Mituna Captor is turning out to be quite a troubling situation for you.

The fact that you agreed to this sort of relationship is absurd even to you, even months since the initial instatement of said arrangement.

On paper, Mituna seems like the exact type of person you’d tend to despise. Loud, vulgar, admired by everyone around him, but in a distinctly  _ tacky _ fashion, and clearly sexually promiscuous, Mituna Captor is what the general public might call (once again, excuse your foul language) a “fuckboy”.

In addition to  _ that, _ Captor is also generally the type of personality yours often tends to clash with. He seems to say all sorts of outrageous things with  _ no _ regard as to how they may be perceived or whom he may be causing discomfort to in doing so. Captor is a classic delinquent, skipping college class to smoke illegal substances (you can’t even begin to fathom how he even  _ managed to be admitted _ into any institute of higher education). He is always crashing around the general area gracelessly, whether on the back of that ridiculous Latula’s motorcycle, or on the battered old skateboard of his.

Mituna’s entire lifestyle is  _ riddled _ with reckless behavior and dangerous habits. If you were a bit smarter, or stronger perhaps, you’d do everything within your power to stay  _ far _ away from him.

But, alas. You’re not especially strong, or especially smart (aside from the obvious, but you suppose that you only stand out as “smart” due to being lumped in with your surroundings, which consist entirely of numbskulls like Ampora and Pyrope). You’re just Kankri Vantas, a raging homosexual, and even  _ you _ cannot help yourself from falling for half-lidded heterochromatic eyes when they sparkle at you in late afternoon light.

Shutting your laptop, you consciously register the thought that you’re making a stupid decision.

Then you type back a message, lightning quick, and send it immediately before you can try to talk yourself out of it.

**Me:** _I’ve got no engagements right now. Please send your whereabouts, and I will make my way over._

Before you can convince yourself not to, you’re typing out a second frazzled text.

**Me:** _And, are you smoking? If so, I should hope that you’re supervised. And in addition, not supervised by Makara._

You wait in clenched-teeth silence for Mituna’s response. Your mind is running wild with anxiety. What if Mituna thinks you’re overbearing, and needlessly neurotic, and that you’re patronizing him and/or trying to control his life and finally realizes that he wants to be free of your irritating, helicopter parent-esque presence, and then remembers that he doesn’t even need you as a friend with benefits, because surely there are tons of endlessly more attractive and  _ less _ annoying and more sexually experienced not to mention sexually adept men and women and non-binary individuals alike who would jump at the chance to engage in a physical relationship with him?

Your phone  _ pings, _ you flinch violently in the folding chair that sits at your desk, and fumble to open up your text thread with Mituna.

**Mituna Captor:** _hehehsj kankrhy ur sowrrief akl thr tkme/.!/:://, Imfjnb_

**Mituna Captor:** _nodhoyts herrw lol so y cn get in on tjw actujn as sopn asyohb gegt hre_

It takes you a moment to decipher the second message, but in the time that you’re understanding what Mituna meant— _ Nobody’s here (“lol”), so you can get in on the action as soon as you get here— _ your brain relaxes.

You relax because Mituna clearly doesn’t want to be rid of you (yet) and he wants to see you, and evidently he… wants to do more than just  _ see _ you, and you smile to yourself pathetically.

Still, your brow creases sternly when you register that Mituna is  _ getting high alone, _ something that you constantly tell him not to do, and tell him you worry about, and remind him of the dangers of. Smoking alone is not a good idea in general, but you’ve reminded Mituna countlessly how inadvisable it is when his injury and the effects of his accident are taken into account.

**Me:** _Mituna! Haven’t I told you not to do things like that while not in the presence of an unincapacitated chaperone?_

When you wait another few moments and Mituna doesn’t reply, you grumble to yourself and press  _ call. _ Thankfully for your nerves, he answers within seconds.

“Mituna? Are you there?” you ask, irritation creeping into your tone.

_ “H-Heyyy, Kank-y,” _ Mituna’s voice slurs over the phone. Even with the added static that filters through your cell phone’s network and corrupts the quality of Mituna’s voice, you feel your pulse jump at the sensation of him speaking into your ear.

“Mituna,” you acknowledge him. “Where are you?”

_ “Where d’you th-hink I am, K-Krankr—Kankri?” _ he asks. The stumbling over his words is something he tends to do when he’s really high, and you frown to yourself.

“…At your apartment, I presume?” you do, in fact, presume. The glitchy-sounding, but still adorable laugh that resounds from your cell phone’s speakers is enough confirmation. You sigh.

“Okay, Mituna. Stay right there,  _ refrain _ from going anywhere, or engaging with any sort of objects that may be dangerous to you in your current state,” you babble, grabbing for your shoes and then your jacket and keys.

_ “’Re you go—um, comin’ to get me, Kan-ny?” _ Mituna hiccups over the line, and you jam the phone between your shoulder and ear. You’re aware of the health risks of engaging in cellular phone conversations for extended amounts of time while the device in question is within close proximity to your head, but you’re feeling too frantic right now to worry about  _ that. _

“Yes. I will be hanging up now. Remember what I said!” you remind him, before rushing out the door.

Thankfully, there’s not much traffic or otherwise circumstances to hinder your commute to Mituna’s residence, so you make it there quickly and without anything that could be considered a hitch.

You make your way into Mituna’s  _ disheveled _ apartment building (you do not approve of him living in such a run-down area, but many times you’ve attempted to broach the subject to him and he’s just shrugged you off, so you’ve accepted that it’s no use) and up the stairs, and when you make it to the door of Mituna’s apartment, you can hear the ridiculous music he loves blasting inside. Thankfully, the smell of contraband is not obvious from the hallway, but the ruckus is bad enough.

Rolling your eyes, you unlock the door—he gave you a key to his home a while back, which would not be advisable for him to do in other circumstances, but you deem it wise given that it’s  _ you _ and, also, it’s  _ Mituna. _

“Mituna,” you snap immediately upon making it through the threshold, already waving a finger in the air to scold him about how inconsiderate to his neighbors it is to be playing his awful “glitch-core” music on such a volume level, not to mention detrimental to his own hearing, and—

You look up, and every preachy train of thought you had queued up to spew at him falls out of your brain gracelessly.

Mituna Captor lies draped across the trashy sofa he and Kurloz picked up off the side of the road (something you scolded them both for mercilessly, to no avail), shirtless and holding what he and his band of misfits refer to as “a joint” in his left hand. His other hand brushes lasily through his mop of golden hair, soft and fluffy as it falls in his eyes.

Against  _ all _ your better impulses, you want to touch it. You want to touch  _ him, _ looking so alive with the slow rise and fall of his pale chest, yet so stagnant in the way his blinks have slowed down, his head lolls against the arm of the couch.

You swallow.

Mituna looks up, blinks twice, before his face breaks into an enormous grin that showcases the gap between his chipped front teeth. “Kan-Kra-Kankri!”

You push down the pesky feeling that’s welled up inside you, useless and uncomfortable, and lightly,  _ respectfully _ close the apartment door behind you.

“Mituna, what have I always told you about smoking? You shouldn’t do it without supervision!”

“Mehhhh,” he mumbles, drawing out the single syllable, half-lidded eyes in shades of honey and ice staring into yours. “C’mere.”

You nearly gasp, affronted. “Mituna!”

“Wha-at?” he asks, tilting his head, the movements of his joints so loose that he looks like a ragdoll. “Didn’t’cha, um, wan-wnana tou-uch me?”

The bluntness of his phrasing makes your face erupt in red. “Shush,” you hiss, even though there’s no one there to hear him, especially with the added noise of the music. “And turn that darn music off. It’s just a cacophony of mismatched noise.”

Mituna takes another hit and smiles again at that, looking angelic despite the reddish tinge to his eyes that becomes more apparent the closer you get to him. The stench of marjuana becomes stronger with proximity, too. “M-um, I l-like it. ’S cool.”

You can’t seem to suppress your eye roll at that. “Ugh. Move over,” you say, forgoing manners in this situation because Mituna really does get to you that much.

He obeys thoughtlessly, which you can admit is one of his better traits. Mituna is usually willing to do what you say, unless it’s—you clamp down on that train of thought, mindlessly tugging at the collar of your sweater. It’s truly ridiculous, the kind of effect Mituna Captor has on you at times.

“Wha’s wrong?” Mituna slurs, poking his head  _ much _ too far into the bubble of personal space you fight to maintain at all times. His crooked nose bumps yours, heterochromatic eyes wide as he awaits your answer. His breath smells like pot and bubblegum, and it’s repulsively intoxicating.

Mituna has always reminded you a bit of a puppy.

“Hey! Keep outside of my space, remember?” you scold, so Mituna backs up slightly, not looking discouraged by your tone at all.

“T-Tell meee,” he whines. “You never-never tell me anythin’ important.”

“Well, this isn’t important, so refrain from worrying about it,” say, folding your hands primly in your lap. You might as well make an attempt be collected enough for the both of you.

“Then, Ka-you can tell me, can’t yo-ou?” Mituna asks, and he sounds so self-satisfied that you have to glance over and grimace at the smirk that has materialized on his face, smug and irritating in its attractiveness.

You fix him with an unimpressed look.

After a moment, Mituna sighs, pitches his head back, and flicks you lightly in the arm, which almost makes you laugh.

“F-Fine, if y’er not gonna tell me, can-can-can we kiss?”

_ That _ makes you tense up immediately, so much so that Mituna notices and gives you a questioning look.

_ “No _ we can’t kiss!” you sputter indignantly.

Mituna’s expression morphs into genuine bemusement (you know it’s genuine because he can’t fake or force things for his life), and asks, “Why not? I-Isn’t that why Kran-Ka—  _ you _ came h-here?”

“I can’t kiss you! You’re under the influence, and I’m perfectly sober! It would be unethical, amoral, even to do such a thing!” you squawk, shaking Mituna’s shoulders.

He just looks back at you, unconvinced, joint hanging from his pretty fingers. “Tha’s lame.”

“The rules of consent are not  _ lame, _ Mituna.”

“Soun’s pre-etty lame to me, Kan-Kr-Kanny,” says Mituna.

“Well—I don’t care! Those are the  _ rules,” _ you reply.

“Says who?”

“Says  _ who?!” _ you ask, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s the most ridiculous question you’ve ever heard. Then, you realize that you’re not quite sure what specific voice of authority says that. But you’re letting Mituna turn you around.

“Who says it doesn’t matter! It’s important nonetheless, and you will not get me to budge on this matter, Mituna,” you inform him, crossing your arms over your chest and considering that to be the end of the discussion.

After a moment, though, Mituna says, “I-If tha’s the rule, ju-ust smoke wi’f me.”

You blink.

_ Smoke… with Mituna? _

As soon as it sinks in and you come to your senses, you’re sputtering again. “W-what? No! Mituna, that’s—I would never…  _ no!” _

Mituna shrugs. “Why not?”

“Wh—you—  _ because!” _ you say, at a loss.  _ You? _ Smoking  _ marjuana? _ It’s a thoroughly ridiculous notion.

Still, the way Mituna blinks up at you, the setting sun lighting his two-colored eyes on fire (you know it’s rude to fetishize aspects of anyone’s appearance, but you really cannot explain the effect that Mituna’s eyes have on you), and something inside you glows red-hot.

He pushes closer, snaking the hand unoccupied by his joint around your waste, palms warm where they press into you through your sweater. You feel a shiver run up your spine as you watch Mituna take another drag, eyes trained on yours, gaze unflinching.

_ No wonder he gets around so much, _ you think distantly, breath catching in your throat.

“How—how do you…  _ smoke, _ anyway?” you ask finally, voice shaky.

Mituna’s focused expression breaks again, making way for his chipped smile. “ ’S real easy, Kann-ny! I’ll sh-show ya.”

With that, Mituna places himself in your lap, not very gently, but you can’t even find it within yourself to complain or chastise his conduct, because  _ Mituna Captor is in your lap, _ and he’s cupping your chin with one calloused palm and lifting the other to take a hit from his joint, close to burning low at this point.

You open your mouth to inquire about what to do next, but before you can, Mituna’s bringing his lips to yours and exhaling into the space between your parted lips, the taste of him tinged with something else filling up your senses.

He pulls back, and you take in the half-lidded set of his eyes juxtaposed with the heat in the air.

Your head is spinning, and vaguely, you ponder over whether it’s possible for the marjuana to be affecting you this soon after the first hit.

“D’ya feel it?” Mituna asks, his voice pitched lower than it had been, raspy with closeness, and you register that his face is still unbelievably close to yours, your cheek steadied by his hand.

It’s ironic, really, that he is able to keep you on your feet so easily, figuratively as well as with literal connotations, despite Mituna being a shaking pillar in his own right. You suppose your own efforts to stabilize him in return are worth taking into account.

“I think so,” you reply.

“Good,” he murmurs, leaning back in to repeat the action. This time, after letting the smoke fill your waiting lungs, he presses your mouths together in earnest, and you can’t bring yourself to object, melting into the rhythm of the kiss.

You were right before, as you usually are—Mituna’s tongue tastes of bubblegum and marjuana, and maybe something else, too, like one of those awful artificial energy drinks he insists on you buying for him whenever you pass a Seven Eleven in his company. Still, you don’t mind the chemical flavor as much when you’re consuming it by way of the hot slide of Mituna’s mouth against yours.

You let him exhale into your mouth once more before the joint becomes useless, and you’re forced to grab Mituna’s wrist and put the joint out on your own jeans (a heinous thing to do, but your choices are limited) to keep him from irresponsibly tossing the half-light thing over his shoulder.

He laughs against your neck when you do that, gravelly, and takes the opportunity to slip a hand under your sweater, making you gasp when his fingers, warm from the blunt and body heat, slide onto your hip bone.

You’re chronically cold, but by now you’re aware of the fact that Mituna’s blood runs hot.

You mumble out something undignified and, frankly, shameful when he redirects his mouth to your neck.

Despite knowing from experience that your skin is too dark to show any noticeable marks, you hiss out a  _ “be careful”, _ but you’re well aware that Mituna won’t pay it any mind. He’s strangely territorial when it comes to biting and sucking (as crude as your phrasing may be) hickeys into your neck and thighs, and you foggily wonder if he’s the same way with his countless other hookups.

The reminder that Mituna’s warm body and dual-colored eyes and bite marks aren’t reserved for you and you only sends a sick pang shooting through your stomach. Despite your better instincts telling you to  _ stop this right now, _ you push it down, and then let Mituna push  _ you _ down onto the couch.

As much as you hate to admit it, you tend to be essentially useless immediately after you and Mituna finish up your “business” (for lack of better phrasing).

Your head is clouded with exhaustion and your body limp as a result of the glow Mituna’s hands leave behind. Additionally, you’re fairly sure that you’re still high, or some approximation of it. So you try not to blame yourself much when your first conscious thought after cleaning yourself off is that Mituna’s hair flopping in his eyes is somewhat adorable.

He’s just as, if not more, useless than you are, slumped in a pile with his head resting on your bare hip. Mituna’s hair is always in his eyes—he insists that is “just the style” whenever you chastise him for it—but it’s sticking to his forehead with sweat, gold strands shining in the low light, locks of it stunning when juxtaposed against the dark hues of your own skin.

You exhale, allowing yourself a moment to watch him.

He is beautiful. You’re aware of this—you always have been. It’s a fact, irrefutable, just as it’s factual that the Earth spins and that two hydrogen and one oxygen molecules make up water. It’s why he gets away with so much, why people fall at his feet like dominos. Why he’s got a rotating circle of playthings willing to get on their knees for him.

A rotating circle of playthings that includes  _ you. _

“S-Stop thi-inkin’,” Mituna mumbles, rousing you from your downward spiral and batting a hand lazily in the air.

“What?” you ask, shooting him a look. He pries his eyes open and stares at you knowingly.

“Y’er thinkin’ t-too much,” he says. “Can hear it. Sto-st—quit it.”

You sigh, which Mituna responds to by flicking you in the torso and hoisting himself up on one elbow.

Since you, like the rest of the collective population, are helpless to Mituna Captor, you allow yourself to be roped into a slow kiss.

And it’s a  _ good _ kiss. Gentle, soft, warm, almost—

You pull back immediately, eyes going wide. “No,” you say, making Mituna’s eyes open, too. “No, no, no, I can’t. Sorry. I can’t do this.”

His face drops like that of a kicked puppy, and something wrenches inside your chest. “C-can’t…? Why not, Kank-y?”

Your heart lurches, but you  _ can’t _ do this, and the way you’re reacting to his stupid face right now is even more proof of that. “I just—I  _ can’t, _ Mituna,” you say, sitting up and pushing him off of you.

“Can’t ki-iss me?” he asks, expression wobbling. “Did I do somethin’ wo-wrong?”

“No—yes,  _ no,” _ you stutter out, and you don’t like to swear, but Jesus. This is  _ exactly _ why you can’t be around Mituna. No one else gets this sort of reaction out of you. No one else holds the power to make you come undone in more ways than one, and you don’t know if you can handle that.

You don’t know if you can handle him having this effect on you, while you’re easily replaceable in comparison.

“C-Can you tell me wha’ I did wrong?” he asks in a small voice.

You don’t want to get hurt. But you also don’t want to hurt him.

“Mituna, it’s just—,” you say, rolling your eyes up to the stained popcorn ceiling of Mituna’s trashy apartment. “I can’t just be someone you mess around and have casual sexual intercourse with. I’m not comfortable with just being another one of your playthings. I understand that you’re better suited to no-strings-attached sorts of arrangements, but I’m  _ not. _ I have feelings. For you.”

You let it all out in a jumble, and have to physically choke back the urge to slap a hand over your mouth.

You told him that you have feelings for him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—that was out of line and not suited to our relationship, and I should not have burdened you with the knowledge of my own feelings that you obviously can’t reciprocate! Consent before confession, I’m sorry, really, I—” you splutter, waving your hands nonsensically, before Mituna’s hand joins the picture and smacks itself over your mouth.

“Shush,” Mituna says succinctly, before tilting your head up and forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Ka-nk-ri,” he says, sounding your name out slowly, and your stomach drops at the way he pays each syllable attention. Like your name deserves to be spoken like it means something.

“Wha’ ’re ya talkin’ about?” he asks, and that makes your eyes go wide. “Y’er not someo-ne I just  _ mess aroun’ with,” _ Mituna says. “You’re my boyfrien’.”

Your attempt to say  _ “what?” _ is muffled by Mituna’s hand over your mouth, so you do something extremely immature and undignified. You lick his palm, and when he yanks his hand away in understandable disgust you ask,  _ “What?” _

Mituna sticks his tongue out, brow furrowed as he wipes his hand off on your sweater (gross, but there are more pressing matters at hand) and says, “Didn’t’cha know that?”

_ “What?” _

“You’re m’ boyfriend,” he repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He bats an errant curl of golden hair out of his eyes and says, “I th-thought ya knew that.”

_ “What?” _ you ask for the third time, this time grabbing Mituna’s shoulders and shaking him.

He shoots you a glare. “Damn, an’ I thought  _ I _ was s’posed to be the d-dumb one.”

“No, I—since  _ when _ was I your boyfriend?” you demand, feeling your chest inflate with something that feels irritatingly like hope.

You swear to god, what you’ll do if this is Mituna playing a joke on you…

“Duh, since we-e firs’ made out,” Mituna says, shrugging like this is no big deal.  _ NO BIG DEAL? _

_ “WHAT?” _

“Ka-ankri, how m-many times do I hafta—”

_ “WHEN DID WE EVER DISCUSS BEING BOYFRIENDS?” _

“When I s-said, ‘does this me-ean we’re sinn-yfican others’ and you didn’t say no,” Mituna says, poking you on the nose.

“You— _ I thought you were misusing the term!” _ you snap, unable to believe this. You’re dating Mituna? And have been for literal (yes, literal in the correct usage) months?

“Thas’ kinda insultin’,” Mituna says, but his playful expression says otherwise.

“Besides, I—the absence of a ‘no’ does not mean a ‘yes’! This is why you need to study the rules of consent,” you accuse, poking Mituna in the chest with your pointer finger.

“So ya do-on’t wanna be my boyfrien’?”

“You idi— _ yes, _ I want to be your boyfriend! I just said I had feelings for you!” you reply, throwing your hands in the air.

Mituna’s grin resurfaces, gap teeth and all, and he pulls you into a hug and nearly shouts, “Cool!”

“That was  _ in my ear!” _ you hiss, but wind your arms around him nonetheless.

You can’t believe this. You really can’t.

“Hey, Ka-kri, wanna fu-uck again?” Mituna pulls back and asks after a moment.

You’re pretty sure you might pass out with the speed that all the blood in your body rushes to your cheeks. “We didn’t  _ fuck, _ you know, that was what’s referred to as an act of—”

“Yuh-huh, I get it,” Mituna hums, burying his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe I gotcha to smoke weed wi’f me.”

You’re likely going to be forced to reschedule your prior arrangement with Karkat and his boyfriend.

Strangely enough, though, you don’t feel very guilty about that.

(/Sarcastic.)

**Author's Note:**

> the tone tag .... sorry
> 
> also help if i wrote mituna’s speech really badly it wasn’t my intention. i made him talk like i do sometimes


End file.
